


A Comedy of Errors

by LadyEnterprise1701



Series: The Doctor and the Teacher [4]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Pre-Episode: s10e01 The Pilot, Series 10 AU, astonishingly ridiculous levels of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-12 12:55:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18011303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyEnterprise1701/pseuds/LadyEnterprise1701
Summary: Bill Potts is captivated by the whimsy and passion of the Doctor's lectures, even though she's not a student of St. Luke's University and would probably be tossed out bodily if she ever got caught sneaking into his classes. But when she observes her hero gawking shamelessly at Clara Oswald, Bill is filled with righteous indignation on the English tutor's behalf...totally unaware that there is far more to the Doctor and Miss Oswald's relationship than meets the eye.





	1. Bill

**Author's Note:**

> One of these days, I'm going to write a full-blown Series 10 AU for my beloved "The Doctor and the Teacher" series. As it is, I can only offer all these little short stories. This one was so much fun to write. I love Bill Potts, and this story is inspired by her hilarious, rambling description at the beginning of "The Pilot" of the Doctor's perceived behavior towards someone in his audience. 
> 
> This story begins not long after the end of "The Thousand-Year Oath." Enjoy! 
> 
> P.S. In the final chapter of "This Life We Choose," a very pregnant Clara met Bill Potts at the bus stop, so they aren't total strangers to one another at this point.

Wilhelmina Potts shuffled into the office of the Head of the Canteen, her hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets and a sullen, borderline-rebellious look on her young face. The secretary who’d opened the door after calling her name now shut the door behind her with a totally unnecessary slam…and Bill, as she preferred to call herself, found herself alone. 

_Well, alone except for the Head of the Canteen. That is such a weird name for a position— “the Head of the Canteen.” Sounds like a creepy monster. They should definitely change it._

The Head of the Canteen (who, it must be said, looked as he’d paid one too many visits to the Canteen and had one too many batches of Bill’s finest chips) looked up from his paperwork. “Bill Potts.”

“Present, sir,” Bill said, not even bothering to tamp down the sarcasm in her voice. 

The Head of the Canteen frowned and clasped his pudgy hands on his desk. “Miss Potts, I understand you had an incident in the Canteen this afternoon.”

Bill shoved her hands even deeper into her pockets. “Yes, sir.”

“And I understand you—ahem—‘cursed out’ one of our cherished customers.”

_CHERISHED?! He’s an entitled, priggish dweeb who thinks all of life oughtta be handed to him on a freaking silver platter!_

     This is what Bill thought; this is _not_ what Bill said. 

“He cursed me out first, sir,” she muttered. 

“That is no excuse. We do not talk back to our cherished customers like that—least of all one of our _most_ honored students on campus! Alec MacPherson is a scholarship winner—one of our up-and-coming astrophysicists—you can’t just fly in his face every time he makes a complaint!”

Bill gritted her teeth. There’d been a bit more to the story than _that_. Not only had he slammed his tray into the counter and accused her of giving him fewer chips than the rest of the students  (a bold-faced lie), but minutes before he’d been taunting another student who’d looked like she might be on the verge of tears. It had been cruel. By the time he mentioned chips, Bill hated him. 

“The customer is _always_ right,” said the Head of the Canteen. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Bill grumbled, eyes on her sneakers.

The Head of the Canteen sighed and leaned back in his creaking chair. “Good. I’ll let you off with a simple warning this time, Bill. I really don’t want you to lose your job. Your mother  would be terribly disappointed.”

“Foster mother,” Bill muttered. 

“I’m sorry?”

“I said,” Bill hissed, “she’s my _foster_ mother.”

“Oh quite right, quite right,” the Head of the Canteen said dreamily. “A wonderful woman. A fine dancer.”

Bill just barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The Head of the Canteen snapped out of his adolescent fantasy and took up his pen with exaggerated precision. 

“That’ll be all,” he said. “Don’t let me hear of any more altercations with Alec MacPherson—and remember. The customer is always right. You may go now. Toodle-oo.”

Bill spun on her heel without a goodbye. As she exited, the secretary shot her a spiteful look. Bill ignored it and stormed out, slamming the door just as soundly behind her as the secretary had done a few minutes ago. 

“Well?” asked Nadia, the girl who flipped burgers, as Bill stalked into the nearly-empty cafeteria. “Did you get sacked?”

“No,” Bill said dully. 

“Why?! I mean—I would’ve thought—not that I would’ve wanted you to get sacked—”

“Probably ‘cause my foster mum’s _datin’_ him.” Bill rolled her eyes now, grateful she only had to deal with the sympathetic Nadia. “Should I be glad about that perk? Probably. Am I? Not in the slightest.”

Nadia tilted her blond head to the side. “Well, I’m sorry about _that—_ but I’m glad you’re okay. This place would fall apart without you.”

Bill sighed, slung her purse over her shoulder. “Thanks. I’ll see you in the mornin’.”

Nadia waved and returned to her last few chores before closing up shop for the day while Bill strode outside. Bill shivered in the November air and draw her shoulders up closer to her ears. The elegant campus of St. Luke’s University in Bristol had begun settling down for the day: like her, students, tutors, professors, and staff all headed for the various exits and bus stops. 

But as she braced herself against a sudden, frigid breeze, she noticed a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye. She glanced to the left. A cluster of young people had gathered in front of one of the lecture halls. They clearly weren’t ready to leave just yet, even though the huge campus clock struck five and shadows lengthened on the green. 

With the last clang of the clock, the lecture hall doors flew open. The students grinned eagerly at whoever had opened them and streamed inside. Bill paused on the other side of the green,  running her thumbnail along the edge of her purse strap. 

_What’s goin’ on in there at this hour?_

She’d only been working on campus for two months; it wasn’t like she knew all the goings-on at St. Luke’s, or like she _wanted_ to know all the goings-on. On the other hand, students wouldn’t be usin’ a lecture hall for nefarious purposes, would they? This was a class—a night class—one they were actually excited about. 

But on the other hand, she couldn’t really afford to lose her job if she got caught sneaking into classes she certainly didn’t have to money to pay for, just ‘cause she was curious. She’d gotten into enough trouble today, runnin’ foul of Mr. Priggy MacPrigson. 

_But on the_ other _hand, nobody’ll ever notice_ me. _I’m not…noticeable._

No indeed. She never had been noticeable. Why else had she been tossed and churned through the foster system like a forgotten pebble on a wide-open beach? 

Bill looked both ways, drew a breath, set her teeth, and crossed the green. The door of the lecture hall still hung ajar. She squeezed through the small opening, her heart pounding against her ribcage, and tiptoed across the small lobby to the auditorium doors. Lights shone on a stage, a podium, a blackboard, a speaker. The outer edges of the room, however, were dark. _Perfect_. Bill suppressed a giddy grin and sat down on the very edge of the chair closest to the door. 

A breathless silence broken only by the scrape and squeak of chalk hung over the room while the lecturer wrote on the chalkboard. When he finished he tossed the chalk aside, spun on the toes of a pair of scuffed Doc Martens, and faced the darkened (but very full) audience.

“ _Value!_ ” he cried. “What is it? Have you ever thought about it? What is our standard of value? Who _decides_ what’s valuable, and what’s not? Perhaps more importantly, who decides _who_ is valuable…and who’s not?” 

Bill pressed her knees together and leaned forward. He was tall and lanky, she could tell that much from this distance, and a person would have to be blind not to notice that wild shock of silver curls streaked with black—but she had to strain her eyes to make out the features of the narrow, weathered face. She finally just blinked and leaned back, intrigued enough by the thick Scottish brogue. She could study the face later. Maybe. If she didn’t get caught.

“Once upon a time, a woman no older than you would’ve seen her physical value drop if she didn’t have a ring on her finger and two or more babies toddlin’ after her. Why? Because the society in which she lived decided that her value depended on marriage and childbearing.

“But let’s pick on somethin’ a bit closer to your own time. Not so long ago you young fellows would have been _jeered_ out of town if you expressed an interest in, say, music or painting. _Or_ maybe today—this day—you have a talent for makin’ something both intricate and useful out of a shapeless block of wood. Craftsmanship—the surest sign of intelligence and an appreciation for beauty in the universe— _you_ have a knack for it—but society tells you what? ‘The liberal arts aren’t important,’ on the one hand, and ‘workin’ with your hands is menial labor’ on the other.”

The lecturer took a few slow steps backward and planted his fingertip underneath the word he had scribbled on the chalkboard. 

“ _Value._ Who decides it?”

Nobody spoke. The lecturer whipped his professor’s robes to either side and planted his fists on his hips. 

“Because here’s the thing you people always seem to forget: there’s a _profound_ difference between Equality and Sameness. Equality says, ‘you are entitled to justice and fair play and equal opportunity—you are _guaranteed_ the basic human right to pursue life and liberty and your own personal prosperity.’ Sameness says, ‘We must all conform to the same rigid standards if we are to achieve the ultimate Utopia.’ 

“Equality, however, in its truest form, says, ‘You’re as free to pursue what sets your soul on fire as the next man or woman, and you are no less important to your world and your community if your choices look a little less business-as-usual than your neighbors’. So write those books! Paint those paintings! Carve those tables and plant those gardens and create those wonderfully complex computer codes and sing from the mountaintops! You are as important to society as anyone else because you have _value_ , and you have dreams that were sewn into your soul from  the very moment you sparked into existence.’ 

“Sameness, on the other hand…”

The lecturer smiled grimly and waved his hand dismissively, as if swatting away the glorious image he’d just painted with his words—an image which, Bill realized, had made her heart clench a little in her chest. 

“Sameness says, ‘Conform. Pack yourself in a tidy little box and throw away the key, because Sameness is safer, less messy, and you’re just another cog in the machine. Your dreams are useless fantasties. We don’t need your unique contribution to this universe—and if you can’t accept that, then _you_ are unwanted, unneeded, and uninvited.’ ” 

The lecturer slipped his hands in his pockets and raised his eyebrows. “Which one appeals to the human spirit? Which one are _you_ instinctively drawn to? I’m gonna bet it’s the first one…because deep down we know we are valuable, and needed, and unique, and absolutely 100% _critical_ , in our own separate and special ways to the grand, epic story of this wide and beautiful universe.”

Bill let out a shuddering breath. The lecturer turned and, without any introduction or build-up whatsoever, launched into an explanation of the Pythagorian Theorem. But this time, Bill didn’t, _couldn’t_ pay attention. So long as the lecturer had paced the floor of his stage, talking of dreams and value and stories, it was as if he’d spoken to no one else but her. 

And she had never heard anybody speak like that to her in her whole, entire life.

 

* * *

 

Sneaking into the Scottish professor’s evening lectures became a habit. Bill couldn’t help herself. She felt like a moth drawn to a light. He made her laugh, think, cry, and rage—not against him, of course, but against the things that always made her feel so… _trapped_. Trapped by her foster mum’s critical comments, her foster mum’s never-ending string of boyfriends…and the judgments of the social workers who’d acted like she couldn’t understand a word they were saying back when she was a child.

_ “Wilhelmina Potts. Lord, what a name. Who in their right mind…?” _

_ “Apparently the mother wasn’t in her right mind. I heard she was a—” _

_ “Oh no, no, she wasn’t. I heard she had cancer, refused treatment for the baby’s sake…” _

_ “Poor thing. It’d be easier if she were a prettier child.” _

_ “And a bit more ladylike. She’s the roughest tomboy I’ve dealt with yet.” _

The shreds of those old conversations played themselves over and over again in Bill’s mind more than she cared to admit. But now she had a weapon: the Scottish professor’s gravelly brogue, fighting back the stench of rejection and worthlessness. 

_“You are as important to society as anyone else because you have_ value _, and you have dreams_ _that were sewn into your soul from the very moment you sparked into existence.”_

“Nadia?” Bill asked not long before Christmas break. “Happen to know the name of that professor who has the extra lectures after regular hours?”

Nadia shook her head, scraping mayonnaise on one side of a toasted hamburger bun. “Nope. I only ever hear people callin’ him ‘the Doctor.’ ”

“That’s not a name. That’s just a title.”

Nadia sighed. “You asked me what I knew, and I told you. I can’t help you anymore than that—sorry.”

Bill pursed her lips, nodded, and brought her knife down hard on the raw potatoes. Well, never mind. At least she had a voice and a face to go with her new philosophy on life. Now all she needed was a name. 

 

* * *

 

Christmas break yielded to the dead of winter and painfully cold walks from her foster mother’s flat to the campus. The Doctor lectured every evening, without fail. The lecture hall was well-heated and Bill felt the cold seep out of her fingers and toes as she sat in the very back, smiling in eager anticipation while the Doctor danced from poetry to physics, crop rotation to Charles Dickens, the Battle of Waterloo to supernovas. 

Winters don’t last long, however, certainly not in southern England. Spring returned, and with it the vibrant colors of the campus green and short-sleeved shirts and graduations. The Head of the Canteen also stopped dating Bill’s foster mother, and to Bill’s relief, the atmosphere between her and her boss became fractionally less awkward. 

She sank into her usual seat in the lecture hall one evening, tired (in a good way) from a hard day’s work—but jumped when the door suddenly opened right next to her. Normally she was the last one to ever come in to the Doctor’s lectures. She stiffened, half-expecting it to be the Dean of the University or something equally horrifying—someone who’d catch her in here where she wasn’t supposed to be and have her sacked. But she sat up even straighter with a jolt of recognition when she saw who it actually was. 

It was a petite young woman, with dark hair falling just below her shoulders and a very smart sense of fashion, judging by the white, floral-sprigged sundress that was both parts girlish and elegant. Bill stared at her, part-dazzled and part-astonished—because she knew exactly who it was. The first time she’d seen her, the woman hadn’t looked anything like this. In fact, she'd  been _so_ pregnant, she’d looked like she might either pop, keel over with exhaustion, or both. Now she was slim,  fit, strong, and bright-eyed. Bill watched as the young woman waved discreetly at a few of the students, then strode confidently down the aisle and took a seat in the front row. 

The Doctor, halfway through an enthusiastic explanation of the Egyptian hieroglyphic system (how that related to tonight’s topic—quantum statistic of life—Bill had no idea), froze mid-sentence. He had a habit of talking with his hands, but now they went still, his slender fingers all extended. It was like he’d shorted out. He even narrowed his eyes as if he didn't quite believe what he was seeing, either. 

And then, quite suddenly, he stood up very straight and grinned _wolfishly_ , right at the newcomer _._ A t the very same moment, Bill remembered her name. 

_Clara Oswald._ One of the on-site, private tutors employed by the university to help struggling students. She worked with the English majors mostly, she had a Northern accent, _and_ she had a baby. Bill had seen the baby several times over the past few months, a dark-haired, blue-eyed, chubby little munchkin just starting to take her first steps. Ms. Oswald brought her almost everywhere  she went.

And now the Doctor was practically _perving_ over Clara Oswald. 

Bill scowled. It was the first time he’d ever said or done anything that had made her burn with indignation. She could practically hear her foster mum now: _“They’re all the same, those_ men _.”_

_No, no no…he’s not like “those men.” HE’S NOT. He can’t be._

And yet the evidence was right there in front of her, wasn’t it?

 

* * *

 

The next afternoon Ms. Oswald came into the canteen with her baby on her hip. Bill looked up in surprise—the tutor hadn’t been to the canteen in months—and grinned before she could stop herself. 

“Hey there, Ms. Oswald,” she said as the young mother stepped up in the queue. 

Ms. Oswald glanced up, and to Bill’s relief, she needed no reintroduction. The tutor’s beautiful and exceptionally large brown eyes lit up in recognition. 

“Bill Potts!” Ms. Oswald laughed. “I remember you! Gosh, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Close to a year, yeah,” Bill said, heaping chips onto a student’s tray. “What happened? Your mother-in-law finally wore you down about eatin’ healthy?”

Ms. Oswald giggled. “Somethin’ like that. But a certain little somebody’s got a few teeth now, so I thought I’d introduce her to some of your Bristol-famous chips.”

“Soon to be ‘world-famous,’ ” Bill said, winking at the baby. “Hey there, Lil’ Miss.”

Ms. Oswald’s baby smiled shyly around the pink dummy in her mouth and leaned her head against her mum’s shoulder. Ms. Oswald kissed the top of the baby’s head and patted her fat thigh affectionately.

Bill watched them out of the corner of her eye, remembering the way the Doctor— _her hero_ —had been checking out the tutor the day before. Nobody deserved to be on the receiving end of that kind of gawking. Certainly not someone as smart and kind as Ms. Oswald seemed to be. 

Without saying a word about it, she shoveled an extra-large helping of chips onto Ms. Oswald’s platter. The baby could always nibble on the bonus ones, anyway. 

 


	2. Jodie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A peek into what Bill Potts doesn't know...yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the sweet comments! Let's see what's going on with the Doctor and Clara since we last saw them in "The Thousand-Year Oath"...
> 
> P.S. I am well aware this is VERY FLUFFY. Let others dwell on angst and gritty stories. I shall read them with relish, but it's hard for me to write them (although I do, on occasion). I'd just much rather write stories where the Doctor and Clara lived happily ever after.

“I think the TARDIS is put out with me.”

Clara Oswald wasn’t sure whether to frown in befuddlement or giggle at this rather sulky remark from the towering Time Lord currently scrubbing dishes at the kitchen sink. She sat up, rubbing the back of her neck, and pushed away the essay on George Elliot’s _Middlemarch_ that desperately needed the bold red strokes of her editing pen. 

_Later_ , she told the fretful control freak lurking in the back of her head. _Even I_ _need a break._

“What are you talking about?” she asked, glancing sidelong at the big blue box tucked into a corner of the kitchen. “What’d she do to you?”

The Doctor slammed a clean plate into the dishwasher with such a clatter, Clara winced. “She is making her displeasure with my hoppin’ back and forth from here to the office _plainly known_ , I can tell you that.”

“Aww. Do you need me to play interference?”

The Doctor glared at her over his shoulder. Clara giggled and leaned her folded arms on the table—and on top of the dreaded paperwork. 

“Okay, okay, I’m being serious and grown-up now, see? Tell me what’s goin’ on.”

“The TARDIS doesn’t like short hops. Even _I_ admit they’re not easy. But I’ve got to keep her in good working order—and it’s not like I can just fly off long great distances these days and stir up the engines whenever I feel like it.”

Clara dropped her gaze, sad and thoughtful. They hadn’t traveled further than London in the TARDIS in almost a year. The oath that bound them to Earth—and more importantly, to the Vault hidden deep beneath St. Luke’s University—kept them planted right here in Bristol. 

Unless, of course, they got the odd call from Kate Stewart, in which case the TARDIS was the quickest and most discreet mode of transport to the Black Archive. 

“ _So_.” The Doctor shut off the sink and waved his hands around in wild, frustrated gestures. “I move her back and forth. To the office…to the flat. I do my best to make it as not-painful as I can, and I _try_ to put her in the same place every time.”

“So landin’ her in the laundry room yesterday wasn’t on purpose?” Clara inquired.

“Of course it wasn’t on purpose,” the Doctor grumbled. “I’d accuse her of doin’ it just to get  under your skin, too, but the two of you have been on such good terms lately. Maybe I should be worried. Are you two in cahoots against me?”

“ _Nooooo!_ But I do want to know what she did to you.” Clara rubbed her hands together gleefully. “Come on, what was it? Did she replace your coffee with root beer, or something?”

“No, she brought me to St. Luke’s this morning two centuries ago.”

Clara’s eyes widened. “Sorry, what?”

“Well, a century and a half,” the Doctor muttered, hurling himself into the chair next to hers. 

“She brought you to St. Luke’s…during the Victorian Era.”

The Doctor shot a withering look at his sentient time machine and mirrored Clara’s position, folded arms on the table. “It’s not that I don’t like the Victorian Era—I _do_ —but I’d like to go there prepared for it, thank you very much.”

Clara smirked. “You know, when you get mad you really start rolling your ‘R’s.”

The Doctor narrowed his eyes. “You are _hee-laaay-rious._ ”

“Thank you.” She snatched up one of the essays and held it up to his face. “Look at this, Doctor. Did you ever see such spelling? I’m just saying—if I were a student of a university like St. Luke’s, I’d be crawlin’ _on my belly_ for good grades. And yet some of these people act like they don’t even care if they fail the whole semester!”

The Doctor took the paper and grimaced. “ ‘You can lead a horse to water…’ ”

Clara frowned. “Huh?”

“ ‘You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink.’ ” He slid the paper back towards her and jabbed it with his fingertip. “In other words, you can work with these pudding brains all you like, but in the end, it’s _their_ responsibility to run with what you’ve taught them. You can’t beat yourself up if they don’t pass their classes.”

Clara sighed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.” 

“How are _your_ classes coming along?”

“Well, if you’d stop bargin’ in without warning, I might be able to get through them without stuttering like a teenager with raging hormones.”

Clara arched one eyebrow. “Why do you think I do it, Clever Man?”

He snorted. Clara tossed her hair over her shoulder and jerked her thumb at the TARDIS. 

“Okay, I had a thought. You watched _Ratatouille_ with Jodie the other night, right?”

The Doctor looked aghast. “ _Noooo_ , I did _not_ watch _Ratatouille._ Jodie watched _Ratatouille._ Mine was just the warm lap upon which Her Little Majesty chose to sit.”

“Yeah, but you remember how the rat jumped on the guy’s head and controlled his smallest  movements just by pullin’ his hair? Maybe that’s how the TARDIS feels about your ‘hops.’ A jerk here, a jerk there. Can’t be comfortable.”

In spite of his efforts to maintain a disgruntled expression, the Doctor started to smile. “Since 

when did _you_ become the TARDIS’ advocate?”

“Oh, I dunno. Maybe I just realize, now that we’re not traipsin’ from one corner of the universe to the next, that…that…”

“What?” the Doctor prodded gently. 

Clara said nothing for a moment. So many glorious memories thundered through her head— Akhaten and Russian submarines and the Bank of Karabraxos and a decrepit old barn in the  desolate Drylands of Gallifrey—memories that could never be repeated or paralleled now. The Vault had made that impossible. Clara had known it would when she agreed to this, but that didn’t mean she didn’t sometimes long for one more crazy, adrenaline-fueled adventure. 

The Old Girl glowed gently as if it sensed her thoughts and wanted to comfort her. Clara gave herself a shake and turned back to the Doctor. “I guess realize now she’s always been very, very good friend. Even if she is a bit of a cow sometimes.”

The TARDIS hummed ever-so-softly at that—a sound of laughter if ever there was one. The Doctor smiled and leaned closer to Clara and her marking. 

“The two of you _are_ in cahoots against me,” he whispered mischievously. 

“Maybe we are, maybe we aren’t,” Clara retorted. “So be nice to us.”

The Doctor flashed a devilish grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners—and snatched the stack of essays right out from underneath Clara’s folded arms. Clara gasped and bolted upright as he sprang out of the chair.

“Give those back, Doctor,” she ordered. 

He raised his eyebrows and lifted them with a flourish above his head. “No.”

“Doctor!” 

He thrust his arm up as high as it would go. He was so tall, the top edge of the papers brushed the ceiling. Clara grinned and leaped to her feet, standing on tiptoe and grasping at his sleeve. 

“Give them to me!” she cried. 

“You should put on some of those shoes that make you taller if you want to make any sort of impression on me.”

“Ugh, you are _such_ a—”

“A what?” he demanded. 

Clara stopped, the fingers of one hand curled around his sleeve and the other around the front of his shirt. He grinned down at her, his blue-grey eyes twinkling their playful challenge—and she thought, as she so often did, that he looked so much younger and _lighter_ now than he had when he first changed. The gaunt, grim face had filled out and softened and smoothed. Even the haunting sadness, the reminder of Trenzalore that once hardened his eyes, had faded almost to nothing. 

“I’m a what?” he asked again, chuckling. “Come onnnnn, Clara Oswald!”

“You,” Clara said slowly, happily, “are a big…old… _softie!_ ”

With that, she released his sleeve and burrowed her fingers into his sides. He let out a wordless shout and dropped his long arms against his ribs to protect himself, hunching over, trying to get away—but Clara had him cornered between the table and the kitchen counter and the Oncoming  Storm had nowhere to go. 

“No no no, stop it—Clara—!”

“Give me my papers!” 

“You’re gonna wake the baby!”

“Give me my pa— _no, no, not fair!_ ”

Clara’s giggles exploded into peals of laughter as he tossed the papers over her head and onto the table, wrapped his arms tightly around her, and started tickling _her._ Clara shrieked in gleeful panic. 

“Stop it!” she squealed. “ _Stop!_ ” 

He just laughed—a wonderful, ringing sound that made Clara think of stardust and music and the blazing light of a thousand suns. She was getting breathless; she let her knees give out from under her and collapsed, taking him down with her to the floor. As she flopped onto her back and gasped for air the Doctor indulged in another laugh and leaned over her on his hands and knees. 

“I win,” he whispered.

“Only because you play dirty,” she gasped. 

He grinned wide and leaned in, capturing her with a kiss. Clara smiled into it, pulled him even closer—

“Mum-ma! _Muuuu-maaaaaa!!!_ ”

The Doctor groaned. Clara smirked and scrambled to her feet. 

“Coming, Jodie!” she called. 

“Come back?” the Doctor asked hopefully. 

Clara flashed him an eager look over her shoulder. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

With that, she hurried out of the kitchen to the little guest-bedroom-turned-nursery. As soon as she opened the door and flicked on the warm lamplight she caught sight of a small, round form sitting upright in the crib, a pink dummy shoved firmly between rosebud lips and large blue eyes staring up at her. Jodie struggled to her feet on the unwieldy mattress. 

“Mumma,” she whimpered behind the dummy. “Mumma…”

“Shh, baby-girl,” Clara soothed, lifting her out of the crib. “What’s the matter? Did Mummy and Daddy startle you? Come here…”

She carried Jodie to the rocking chair. The thirteen-month-old wriggled into a more comfortable position on her mother’s lap, but gave no indication of settling down. She simply leaned back against Clara’s chest, gazing at the glow-in-the-dark stars pasted to the ceiling. It wasn’t nearly as lovely as the nursery aboard the TARDIS, of course, but it served for the nights when they stayed in the flat. 

“Hey,” Clara whispered, stroking Jodie’s dark curls. “It’s sleepy-time. Look, here’s your blanket…”

“No,” Jodie mumbled, shaking her head. 

Clara sighed. She pushed her toes against the floor and the chair began to rock, slow and oh-so-very steady. Jodie clutched her blanket and sat up. 

“Daddy,” she whimpered.

“Daddy’s in the other room. Shh…go to sleep…”

“Somebody calling?” the Doctor whispered, poking his head into the room. Jodie’s face lit up.  She wiggled so enthusiastically, it was all Clara could do to keep her on her lap—but the Doctor  solved that problem by crossing the room in three strides and scooping Jodie up into his arms. 

“You shouldn’t be up this late,” he said gently, propping Jodie against his shoulder the way he used to do when she was much, much smaller. “You know what happens to little girls who don’t get their sleep? They get as bad-tempered as—”

“As Time Lords who’ve gotten on the wrong side of their TARDISes,” Clara deadpanned. 

“I was going to say ‘Daleks,’ but all right.”

Clara smirked and drew her short legs up close to the rest of her, watching while he paced the floor in those faded old plaid trousers and an equally-shabby old t-shirt. While the toddler babbled in a half-English, half-gibberish mix that he absolutely, positively understood, he patted her  back and responded to her as seriously as if she were far older than thirteen months. 

“Yes, of course we can watch the puppies on the—what is it, Clara, the _Baby Doolittle_ video? But not tonight, no… _you_ need your rest. There’ll be time enough for puppies tomorrow. And do you know somethin’ else? I believe somebody told me that _someone_ is having a birthday tomorrow. Quite a milestone, turnin’ the grand old age of _ONE_. A lot more important-soundin’ than ‘twelve months’—although I will say, twelve is a very good number. Will there be cake, Mum?”

Clara leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “Of course there’ll be cake.”

“Ah, good. She wants to know if there’ll be frosting.”

Clara opened one eye. “I didn’t hear her make _any_ noise that could pass for that question—but _yes_ , there’ll be plenty of frosting. I don’t suppose she has a color preference, too?”

The Doctor looked questioningly at Jodie. Jodie looked back at him and didn’t make a peep. 

“Blue,” the Doctor said, drawing the vowel out with great conviction.

Clara laughed. “You’re a mess.”

“She will be, too, when she gets her hands in that frosting.”

 

* * *

 

Jodie had inherited her father’s eyes and her mother’s hair—but she had also inherited his temper and her stubborn streak. Tonight, she was obviously determined to utilize both and stay up as long as possible. Thirteen-month-old babies know their own minds, far more so than most grown-ups give them credit for. Jodie was no exception, _and_ she had the advantage of a Time Tot’s intellect.

But even a half-Time Lord, half-human baby has to give up some time. As she sat on his lap with her wide, unblinking eyes on _Baby Doolittle_ , the Doctor became increasingly aware of her twin heartbeats slowing down. He didn’t dare shift her into a more comfortable position. She’d been sitting bolt upright for half an hour now, as if she knew she’d be out like a light the minute she leaned back against his chest. 

So he did what he’d done many times before and would probably do many more times in the future. Without saying a word or moving a muscle, he simply reached for the telepathic link they’d shared ever since the moment he first felt her kicking against Clara’s womb beneath his hand. Jodie’s consciousness fluttered, small and weary, against his far more powerful one.

_Sleep_ , he thought, firm but gentle. _You are safe. You are loved. And you certainly don’t have to prove anything to_ me _by stayin’ up as late as you can. But you’re kind of interferin’ at this point, Jodie. And it isn’t that we don’t like your_ _company, and I don’t expect you to understand this, but here’s the thing: between you and school_ _and the Vault, we don’t always get a lot of time to—_

BANG went Jodie’s head against his chest. The Doctor jerked back to physical reality. Clara, curled up on the couch next to him and bent over her marking, let out a muffled giggle. 

“Whoops,” she whispered. “Looks like somebody finally gave up.”

The Doctor glanced down, a little surprised himself. Jodie’s eyes were buttoned shut; the pink dummy bobbed in her mouth. He scooted down, shifting her carefully until she lay flat on her tummy on his chest. She hardly stirred except to turn her head towards Clara, sigh, and resume her languid sucking of the dummy.

“Do you ever just look at her and want to cry?” Clara whispered.

The Doctor frowned. “No. Why would I want to cry?”

Clara smiled an uninterpretable smile and leaned her dark head against his shoulder. “She’s a miracle. A Hybrid who shouldn’t have survived. She wouldn’t have, if the Time Lords hadn’t saved me in time—which is a miracle in itself.”

The Doctor fixed his gaze on a point straight across the room, bracing himself against the harrowing memories. It was better, in moments like this, to just banter with her. Anything would be easier than remembering. 

“I was thinkin’ more that she’s a miracle on account of us hatin’ each other for the better part of our first year together,” he deadpanned.

Clara lifted her head, setting her chin on his shoulder instead. “I never hated you.”

“Well, fine, then. You weren’t _inclined_ towards me. Better?”

Clara smirked saucily at him. “I suppose that now you’d like me to prove to you that I’m very much inclined towards you?”

He raised an eyebrow in return. “That’d be nice.”

Clara grinned and got on her knees. With the baby still sleeping on his chest the Doctor tipped his head back, letting Clara cup his face in her hands and kiss him. He lifted the hand not currently holding Jodie in place and slid his fingers underneath Clara’s hair, pulling her closer and relishing the way her pulse thrummed fast and steady beneath his palm.

_You’re here…you’re alive, my Clara…always brave, always perfect…always exactly what I need…_

“I have a favor to ask you,” she whispered, pulling back a few inches. “About work.”

He opened his eyes and scowled. “I thought we were having a moment.”

“We _are—_ but now I’ve got you in a good mood, I thought I might as well ask real quick.”

The Doctor snorted. “All right…you’re worked up now, there’s no stoppin’ you. Fire away.”

Clara leaned back, one elbow on the back of the couch, the other hand on his shoulder above Jodie’s head. “Your evening lectures…”

“What about them?”

“There’s a girl there sittin’ in the back almost every evening. And she’s not a student.”

The Doctor peered at her under his eyebrows. “Not a student? Who is she, then?”

“ _Not_ an alien,” Clara said quickly. “I know that’s what you’re thinkin’—and if I didn’t know better I might’ve suspected it myself. But I _do_ know her. She was here long before we brought the Vault in. She works in the canteen.”

The Doctor glanced to one side and then the other in bewilderment. “If she’s not a student, why’s she coming to my lectures?”

Clara smiled, half-fond, half-teasing. “Maybe because you’re so good.”

He snorted again. “Not according to the faculty. I hear I’m the ‘least-focused’ professor on campus. I even overheard some kid tellin’ another that he thinks I’ve got ADHD.”

“Well, you _might_.”

The Doctor glared and poked her in the ribs. Clara smothered a squeal before she could wake Jodie, then leaned in close again and, with a surprising amount of trust, let him wrap an arm around her ticklish waist.

“Invite her round to your office,” she pleaded. “Just to see what’s drawin’ her to the lectures. I mean, she could get in trouble if anyone else found out, and she’s got to know that. It may be there’s somethin’ in your lectures that’s changing her life. I want to invest in that, if it’s true.”

The Doctor frowned, but it was more a thoughtful expression than an angry one. He knew that look in Clara Oswald’s eyes. He’d first seen it when they met Merry Galel, and then Ashildr: a sort of motherly (or at least big-sisterly) interest, a driving instinct to take a younger girl under her wing and help her realize her full potential. Clara was at her finest when she was being exactly what she was born to be, a Teacher…just as he felt most fulfilled when he was being a Doctor. 

“What’s her name?” he finally asked, with a sigh. 

“Bill. Bill Potts.”

“Bill Potts.” He rolled the name around on his tongue a few times. “A good name. Strong.”

“You’ll invite her round, then?” Clara asked. 

“Of course I’ll invite her. At this point, you’d never give me a moment’s peace if I didn’t.” But even as he said it he grinned at her, and she beamed back at him before rewarding him with another kiss. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. “You are amazing.”

“I know.” He patted Jodie’s diapered bottom. “Let’s put the little Princess away…and then we can take care of that unfinished business we started in the kitchen.”

“The marking, or the tickling?”

“Both.”

“Ohhh no,” Clara hissed, springing away from him. “You’re not distractin’ me from my work again tonight—and we’re _not_ waking her up again.”

“Well then,” he replied, getting up so smoothly that Jodie never noticed, “maybe we can take it into the TARDIS.”

Clara paused, picking at her thumbnail the way she always did whenever she couldn’t decide what she really wanted. The Doctor grinned and jerked his head towards the kitchen.

“I’ll be back,” he whispered. Then he turned on his heel, quite confident that when he got back from the nursery, she would be waiting for him…inside the TARDIS. 

 


	3. The Doctor and the Teacher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill finally meets the Doctor face-to-face...and figures out a Very Important Thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full credit to Steven Moffat for much of the dialogue in this chapter...although not all of it ;)

When Bill Potts made her way up to the Doctor’s office—complete with fluttering stomach and sweaty palms and a very dry mouth—she certainly did not expect the door to be answered by Clara Oswald. 

No. Stop. Full stop, back the lorry up. Bill Potts hadn’t even expected _the freaking summons_. First of all, why in the name of common sense would the Doctor send word for _her_ , a canteen worker, to come up to _his_ office? Second of all, how did he know her name? He hardly ever came to the canteen. Word around campus was that he was a vegetarian ( _or is it a vegan? I always get those two mixed up_ ) and couldn’t stand the smell of hamburgers. 

But maybe she had an answer to that second question now. Clara Oswald visited the canteen, and now she stood right there in the doorway like nobody’s business, her dark hair somewhat mussed and her round face flushed and her cute little toddler perched on her hip.

_Clara Oswald actually knows the Doctor?_ Bill blinked, gripped her purse strap a little tighter. 

“Umm. Hi.”

“Hey!” Ms. Oswald cried. “Good to see you, Bill! Have a good day at work?”

“Yeah, umm…” Bill shifted from one foot to the other, unable to keep a soft smile off her face as the toddler stared at her in innocent, wide-eyed curiosity. “Sorry—I was told I needed to meet the Professor. Doctor. Whatever. _Here._ ”

“Oh, of course!” Ms. Oswald stepped aside, hoisting the baby even higher on her hip. “Come on in and I’ll let him know you’re here.”

“Right,” Bill said, smiling very politely and, admittedly, very nervously. So much for bolstering her sense of serenity and self-confidence. She had another question now, and it went something like this: _why are Clara Oswald and her baby in the Doctor’s office?!_

There was probably a really, _really_ good explanation. There usually was, at least in her experience. Things never just happened willy-nilly. Take her own situation, for example. Most people might assume she and her foster mum had never been a good family match—but Moira _had_ known Bill’s mum and had fought hard to get custody. Whenever Bill felt like ripping her own hair out in frustration over Moira’s craziness, she tried to remind herself of it. _She knew Mum,_ _she genuinely wanted you, she’s done her best—wait—why are you thinking about this now in the_ _Doctor’s office?!_

Ms. Oswald slipped into a side room, leaving the door behind her slightly ajar. Bill rocked on her heels, looked around. The office was wood-paneled, symmetrical, _neat_. A big painting hung on the wall behind her. A huge desk sprawled in front of her. Bookcases lined the walls, loaded with books that looked like they might be hundreds of years old. Bill’s chest tightened with longing. There’d never been enough books in Moira’s flat. 

When she turned her head to the right, however, she raised a curious eyebrow. There in the corner stood one of the old-fashioned police boxes. The blue kind. Not many of those around anymore, that was for certain. It made the “Out of Order” sign seem even more appropriate. 

_Huh. Must be into collectin’ antiques._

With a shrug, Bill plopped down in the chair in front of the desk. Pictures frames, paperwork, coffee cups, and a half-eaten pack of Jammie Dodgers were scattered across its surface. A cup full of oddly-shaped pens caught her eye. She frowned, reached out—

And threw herself backward in her chair as the grating blare of an electric guitar bellowed out the opening chords of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. 

“Ahem!” Bill coughed. Very loudly. 

There was a brief silence, and the door through which Ms. Oswald had disappeared opened a few inches. Bill glanced over her shoulder and held her breath at the sight of the Scottish professor peering at her behind a pair of sunglasses, a black guitar slung over his shoulder. 

_Sunglasses. Indoors._

_Oooookay._

He ducked back behind the door. For a moment her heart sank (though she couldn’t have told anyone why), but then he reappeared, sans sunglasses and guitar. Her heart jumped back to its proper place within her ribcage.

“Potts?” he asked, apprehensively. 

Bill flashed a relieved smile. “Yeah!” 

“ _Bill_ Potts.”

He said it like it was still a question. Bill scooted closer to the edge of her chair, watching him closely as he strode to the window.

“You wanted to see me?” she ventured. 

“You’re not a student at this university,” he answered. _Definitely_ not a question that time. Bill resisted a sudden, childish impulse to squirm. 

“Nah, I work in the canteen,” she said as nonchalantly as possible. 

“Yeah, but you come to my lectures.”

“No, I don’t!” Bill blurted. “I never do tha—” 

The Doctor spun on his heel and pointed a naked vinyl record at her. “I’ve seen you.”

Bill’s heart started another rapid descent down to her toes. _Caught, then. After all these weeks of sneakin’ in, tryin’ to keep it cool, tryin’ to just blend in…I’ve been seen. And by him, of all people._

_I’m dead. I’m dead meat._

“Love your lectures,” she stammered. “They’re _totally_ awesome.”

The Doctor turned back to the window and began examining the record. “Why d’you come to  my lectures if you’re not a student?”

Bill scooted even closer to the edge of her seat. “Okay, so my first day here? In the canteen? I was on chips. There was this girl. One of the tutors. _Beauuuutiful_. Like a model, only with talking and thinking. She looked at you and you perved. Every time, automatic, like physics. Eye contact, perversion. So I gave her extra chips. Every time, extra chips. Like a reward for all the perversion. Every day, got myself on chips, rewarded her—”

“And how does that in any way explain why you keep coming to my lectures?” he demanded, fixing her again with those intense, blue-grey eyes of his. Bill stopped short, mouth open, mentally kicking herself for rambling…and then she took a deep breath and rubbed her palms on her knees. 

“ ‘Cause the tutor was Ms. Oswald. I figured that if she kept goin’ back to listen to your lectures even though you perved over her every time you laid eyes on her, you must be somethin’ special.” Bill shrugged, swallowed hard, glanced to the right. “What’s that? A police telephone box?”

The Doctor followed her gaze. “Yeah.”

“Did you build it from a kit?”

He looked vaguely offended. “No, it came like that.” 

“Then how’d you get it in here? The door's too small and so are the windows.”

“Uhhh, I had the window and a part of the wall taken out, and it was lifted in.”

Bill screwed up her face. “What, with a crane?”

“Yeah, with a crane. It’s heavier than it looks. _Why do you keep coming to my lectures?_ ” 

“Because I _like_ them. Everybody likes them. They’re amazin’.” 

The Doctor actually seemed satisfied with _this_ answer. He nodded thoughtfully, sank into the cushioned chair behind the desk, laced his fingers. They were very long fingers, Bill noticed. Very slender. _A magician’s fingers_ , she thought dreamily. 

“Why me?” she asked, breaking the brief silence. 

“ ‘Why you,’ what?” the Doctor prodded. 

“Well, plenty of people must come to your lectures that aren’t supposed to. Why pick on me?” 

He smiled. “Well, I noticed you.” 

“Yeah, but _why_?” she demanded. She nearly added, “Nobody else notices me, so what gives?” _—_ but decided that that might not be the best thing to say under the circumstances. She was glad she’d made that call, too, because he hesitated a moment, his gaze drifting to one of the picture frames. Bill couldn’t see the photo, but whatever or whoever it was made his expression soften into something a little sad, a little wistful, a little hopeful. 

“Well,” he finally said, “most people when they don’t understand something, they frown. _You …_ smile.”

And with that, his weathered face lit up in the warmest, kindest smile Bill had ever seen. For the second time that afternoon, she smiled back before she could stop herself. 

_What is with me today? Come on, Bill, keep it cool!_

“Okay,” she said, clapping her hands together. “I’ll tell you what I don’t understand.”

The Doctor bolted upright, leaning his elbows on the desk as if ready for her to utter the most profound question in the universe.

“You’ve been lecturin’ here for a while. Not quite as long as I’ve been here, but a good while.  And I’m wonderin’ what it is you’re supposed to be lecturin’ _on_. I mean, it’s like the university  let you do whatever you like! One time, you were gonna give a lecture on quantum physics? You talked about poetry instead.”

“Poetry, physics, same thing,” the Doctor said. 

“How is it the same?!”

“Because of the rhymes. What _are_ you doing at this university?”

“I always wanted to come here.”

“Ah. To serve chips?”

Bill stiffened, drew herself up in her seat. “Am I nearly done?”

The Doctor tilted his head to one side. “Do you want to be?”

_Yes,_ she thought bitterly. _I didn’t come here to be interrogated. Certainly didn’t come here to be insulted._ She pursed her lips and got up. “See ya.” 

“You ever get less than a first, then it’s over.”

Bill froze halfway to the door. “A what?” 

“A first,” the Doctor repeated, busying himself with a rearrangement of the empty coffee cups. “Every time, or I stop immediately.” 

“Stop _what?_ ”

He looked up, and again that warm smile twinkled in his eye. “Being your personal tutor.”

Bill stared at him. The Doctor raised his eyebrows. She started to smile, caught herself, tried to frown instead, and remembered— _“Most people when they don’t understand something, they frown. You smile.”_ She gave her head a little shake to clear it and took a wary step back towards the desk.

“But I—I’m not a student. I’m not part of the university, I never even applied—”

He sprang to his feet and reached her before she could finish. “We’ll sort all that out later!” 

“You kinda have to sort that out _earlier_ …”

“Leave it with me. I’m assuming it’s a ‘yes?’ ”

Bill’s heart pounded. Every hope and dream she’d ever cherished as a little girl came hurtling back. Dreams of books and real, honest-to-goodness learning and…and…and _freedom._ Freedom that all that real learning could give her. Freedom she’d only yearned for, and never been able to grasp. 

“Y-yes,” she breathed. 

“Excellent. I’ll see you at 6 PM every weekday. I don’t care who’s dying—never, _ever_ be late. I’m very particular about time.”

Bill pulled in a short, ragged gasp. She doubted whether she was even awake at this point and discreetly pinched her own leg. _Ow—YEP—I’m awake._

Before she could speak again, however, the side door opened and Ms. Oswald strode in. She still had the toddler on her hip, but now she also clutched a stack of manila folders in her other hand. The toddler clutched a pink dummy in one fist now and waved it happily. 

“Mumma,” she cooed. “Mumma…”

“All right, I got the printer working,” Ms. Oswald said, handing the Doctor the folders. “Not like you, not bein’ able to get a piece of technology to bend to your will.”

“It was cross,” the Doctor grumbled. “Printers smell fear. And it was already cross with me.”

“Well, all it needed was a little patience and sympathy—which, to be fair, aren’t exactly your  strongest points anyway.” Ms. Oswald set the toddler on the floor, holding her tiny hands so the  baby could stand on her chubby legs without falling over. “So! Are we all settled?”

“I think so,” the Doctor replied briskly, flashing another grin at Bill. “6 PM Monday through Friday, either here or at the house. And she just promised me never to be late.”

“I did?” Bill gasped. 

“Sure you did—I heard you.”

Bill looked straight at Ms. Oswald. “You know him? _Well?_ ”

Ms. Oswald laughed and squatted behind her baby. “Yeah, I’d say so. Come on, Jodie, show Daddy how you can walk.”

Out of all the surprises Bill had absorbed over the past ten minutes, this was the one that made her mouth fall open. The Doctor bent his long legs until he, too, squatted in front of the toddler, who waddled unsteadily towards him with one hand still wrapped around one of her mother’s fingers for support. When she finally reached him he tossed the folders on the floor and scooped her up against his shoulder. 

“So,” he said, springing upright again, “any more questions, Bill Potts?”

Bill couldn’t speak. She just stared at him, eyes blown wide, lips parted. The toddler reached up with both hands and grabbed great fistfuls of her father’s silvery curls. Ms. Oswald stood and peered worriedly at Bill. 

“You all right?” she asked. 

“Uh—yeah—yeah, I think so.” Bill cleared her throat, pointed at both of them. “You…the two of you are…and she’s…”

The Doctor smirked. Ms. Oswald’s big eyes got even wider than usual. 

“Oh, gosh,” she half-laughed, half-gasped. “You mean you didn’t know?”

Bill shook her head slowly. “Nope.”

“Things starting to make sense now?” the Doctor asked in a low voice. 

Bill felt all the color rush to her face as she remembered words like _reward_ and _perversion_. “Yeah. Yeah, a lot of sense.”

“Good. Any other questions?”

He looked so not-at-all-angry that Bill smiled brightly at him and nodded. “Yeah. People just call you ‘the Doctor,’ but what do _I_ call you?”

He gently pried the baby’s hand out of his hair. “ ‘The Doctor.’ ”

“But ‘Doctor’ isn’t a name!” Bill cried. “I can't just call you ‘Doctor.’ Doctor _what_?”

And for some reason, Clara Oswald burst out laughing.

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, it's posted from beginning to end and no longer gathering dust on my hard drive! XD
> 
> And guess what? I found ANOTHER story that I started and never finished, too! But this story would be a novel-length, Hell Bent + The Doctor Falls AU, totally unrelated to my "Doctor and Teacher" universe. I actually plotted it from beginning to end while on a road trip last year; I know exactly how it will unfold chapter by chapter. I just think I got distracted with "This Life We Choose," and that's why I never finished it. But it may be my new fanfic project for the next few months, so watch this space! I'll start posting it once/if I've edited the first few chapters and started the following ones.
> 
> (ADDITIONAL NOTE March 23, 2019: It may indeed be a while before I start posting that story, since Life and Original Ideas--which must always take precedence--are once again elbowing their way in, haha. But it's still a Work In Progress, so we'll see what happens!)


End file.
